ELIZABETH F. ELLET. To age, the river. silent, broad, and deep- SODUS BAY. I BLESS thee, native shore! Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparkling clear! "Tis like a dream once more The music of thy thousand waves to hear, As, murmuring up the sand, With kisses bright they lave the sloping land. The gorgeous sun looks down, And o'er thy headlands brown To break the calm so softly hallowed here. Here, in her green domain, She dwells in all the solitude around: And here she loves to wear The regal garb that suits a queen so fair. Full oft my heart hath yearned For thy sweet shades and vales of sunny rest; Stoops to repose upon thy azure breast, I greet each welcome spot Forsaken long-but ne'er, ah, ne'er forgot. "T was here that memory grew— [left; "Twas here that childhood's hopes and cares were Ere droops the soul, of her best joys bereft : Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back! They must be with thee still: Thou art unchanged-as bright the sunbeams play: Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away The blessed things so late resigned to thee. Give back, oh, smiling deep, The heart's fair sunshine, and the dreams of youth That in thy bosom sleep Life's April innocence, and trustful truth! In thy lone murmurs, once again restore. Where have they vanished all?. Only the heedless winds in answer sigh; Still rushing at thy call, With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by! And idle as the air, Or fleeting stream, my soul's insatiate prayer. Is on thy waters and thy woods for me: Its childhood with the music of thy waves. O'ER THE WILD WASTE. O'ER the wild waste where flowers of hope lay dead, And wan rays struggled faintly through the gloom, Like starbeams on the midnight waters shedThou hast brought back the sunshine and the bloom. Like the free bird at heaven's blue portal singing, Thy coming heralded the auspicious morn; And golden songs, and airy shapes upspringing, In answering joy from night's dark breast were born. Thou art the flower, whence zephyrs' balm is stealing: The fountain, sparkling in the smile of day: The sunwrought iris, in the cloud revealing More tints than on the radiant sunset play. Blessings be with thee, oh, thou happy hearted! For thoughts of beauty, fresh, and glad, and wild— For visions of enchantment long departed, Bright as when first they dawned on Fancy's child! The Beautiful, that from life's sky had faded, Fleet dream of joy-ere passed the morning ray, Shines forth, by sorrow's wing no longer shaded, And pours again a sunshine on my way. No rainbow lustre to thy life's sweet dreaming, No gifts like thine, alas! can she impart, [ingWhose trust, lone dove o'er darkened waters gleamComes home to nestle in her pining heart! Yet go thy way, blest evermore and blessing! [prayer: Heaven scorns not, nor wilt thou, one deep heart's And mine shall be, that earth's best joys possessing, God's love may guard thee-his peculiar care! SONG. COME, fill a pledge to sorrow, And if there's sunshine in our hearts, As round the swift hours passToo kind were fate, if none but gems Should sparkle in Time's glass. The dregs and foam together Unite to crown the cup, That fill life's chalice up! The goblet scarcely drained: Then lightly quaff, nor lose the sweets What reck we that unequal Its varying currents swell The tide that bears our pleasures down, Full many a cloud away. Then grieve not that naught mortal Endures through passing years: A mantling pledge to sorrow: THE OLD LOVE. THE old love the old love It hath a master spell, And in its home-the human heart It worketh strong and well: Years, weary years have vanished, Of a deep and hidden wound, When the heart within is burning! Oh, 'tis a bitter, bitter thing, Beneath God's holy sky, To fill that sentient thing, the heart, Yea, wo to those who plant the seed God's image in the soul! Yet silently and softly And the old love-the old love- It was but yestereven A vision light and free, From the old and happy dreamland, Oft sat at close of day- Like some remembered song, That floated on their beaming wings, Though ne'er a word was spoke- And, lady, from the vision The victory alway: Oh, many are its cruel foes- Hath been their dwelling long : And in its home-the human heart It worketh sure and well! THE SEA-KINGS. "They are rightly named sea-kings," says the author of the Inglingaeaga, "who never seek shelter under a roof, and never drain their drinking-horn at a cottage fire." OUR realm is mighty Ocean, The broad and sea-green wave Our dwelling-place and grave! Far on the swelling deep; In fierceness revelling nigh, Before our falchions' light. We seek no noble's bowers; We rule the land and sea! Rear high the blood-red banner! Our swords outspeed the meteor's glance: VENICE. From afar The surgelike tone of multitudes, the hum SONNETS. MARY MAGDALEN. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. BLESSED, tho' grief and shame o'erflow thine eyes; sweet, Who guardst thy timid flock with tenderest care, And melt by powerful love its sevenfold chain: OH, WEARY HEART. Оn, weary heart, there is a rest for thee! Oh truant heart, there is a blessed homeAn isle of gladness on life's wayward sea, Where storis that vex the waters never come; There trees perennial yield their balmy shade, There flower-wreathed hils in sunlit beauty sleep, There meek streams murmur thro' the verdant glade, There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle; Vocal its air with music from above: There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile; There ever speaks a summoning voice of love Unto the heavy-laden and distressed, "Come unto me, and I will give you rest.” Abide with us: let us not lose thee yet! When we are left to mourn But when he broke the consecrated bread, The bow of mercy breaks upon his gaze: Take home the heavenly guest! Wet with the dews-nor greet thee as we ought? THE PERSECUTED. Oh angel! thine be threefold bliss in heaven, Ir was a bitter pain That pierced her gentle heart; The shaft ne'er sped in vain. Of that strange, cruel wrong: Scared from her woody nest- Deep in the mountain's breast: A DIRGE.* He is gone! Though mournfully He, for whom ye, stricken, mourn, To the grave in silence down, With his trustful, generous truth, He hath passed away! Ye who strove his flight to stay, Well ye know that he you mourn Never caused your hearts a pain, Till he left you, to return Never again! Pass with measured pace and slow, Ye have drained the cup of pain. Friends of youth, too, he left, They are weeping now, bereft— They, the true hearted. In style and measure, this is an imitation of a poem by an English author, entitled The Flight of Youth. Desolate is now the place Where so late they saw his face, On the sudden solitude. Soon the places that of yore Knew, shall know the lost no more; He who all so happy made That strange distant shore, Alas! 'tis even so : Yet from that unknown land, Blessed the dead, the Spirit saith, Who life's beguiling path have trod Obedient to the law of faith, With heart still fixed on God. Eye hath not seen that world above; Ear hath not heard that hymn of love: Oh, if but once were rent away The veil which hides that heavenly day, On this cold earth we would not stay! Heard we the harpings of that sphere, We would not linger here! Yea, we would spurn this darksome earth, Nor marvel-in that glorious land, Never again! THE BURIAL. WE laid her in the hallowed place Beside the solemn deep, Where the old woods by Greenwood's shore We laid her there-the young and fair, With her we loved were gone. Like to the flowers she lived and bloomed, As bright and pure as they; And like a flower the blight had touched, She early passed away. Oh, none might know her but to love, Who only love for others knew Through life's brief vernal davs JULIA H. SCOTT. THE late Mrs. Mayo describes the life of Mrs. SCOTT as having been "commenced in one of the quietest mountain valleys, and, with one or two brief episodes only, matured and finished not a dozen miles from where it was begun." In such a career there could have been little to interest the public, and her friend appropriately confined the memoir prefixed to her poems as much as possible to the growth and product of her mind. Mrs. Scott's maiden name was JULIA H. KINNEY, and she was born on the fourth of November, 1809, in the beautiful valley of Sheshequin, in northern Pennsylvania. Her parents were in humble circumstances, and as the eldest of a large family she seems to have lived the patient Griselda, beautifully fulfilling all the duties of her condition, while she availed herself of every opportunity to enlarge her knowledge and improve her tastes. She wrote verses with some point and harmony when but twelve years of age, and when sixteen or seventeen began to publish evinced a fine fancy and earnest feeling. She in a village newspaper essays and poems that afterward wrote for The Casket, a monthly magazine published in Philadelphia, for The gious journals. In May, 1835, she was marNew-Yorker, and for the Universalist reli ried to Dr. David L. Scott, of Towanda, the principal village of the county, which from this period became her home. In 1838 she visited Boston, and she made some other excursions for the improvement of her health, but consumption had wasted the singularly fine person and blanched the beautiful face which I remember to have seen in their me ridian, and in the last year of her life she had no hope of restoration. She died at Towanda on the fifth of March, 1842. The poems of Mrs. Scott, with a memoir by Miss S. C. Edgarton, (afterward Mrs. Mayo,) were published in Boston, in 1843. The volume contains an excellent portrait of her by S. A. Mount, and several commemorative poems by her friends. THE TWO GRAVES. THEY Sweetly slumber, side by side, First wakes the shadows, dark and still, Are marked by no sepulchral stone; Oh, theirs was not the course which seals Their hands no bloody flag unfurled, They only sought by Christ to show But now they sleep—and oh, may ne'er |